With the rain had come a gusty wind and a sharp drop in temperature. Spectators, dressed in the lightweights the climate entitled them to wear with confidence, had clustered in the center of the covered stand along the home stretch on the principle that there was warmth in numbers. The numbers actually ran to about one hundred fifty. If each competitor was represented by a relative or friend, that didn’t leave many there for the sport. This in no way discouraged the man in the public-address booth, who was working as hard as any World Series announcer.
‘Fans, we have a great two hundred in prospect after those qualifying runs. Seems to me San Jose Cindergal, Debbie Jackson, who, remember, has twenty-three point five already this year, and just clocked twenty-four flat in Heat One, is going to pushed by Marlene Da Costa, the Long Beach Comet, who won Heat Two in twenty-four point three, and there’s Jilly Peterson, of West Coast Jets, one tenth behind in Heat Three. Also in contention we have Delia Calvert, of Lancerettes; Toni Burnett, San Clemente Superdames; and the tall blonde from Bakersfield, Goldine Serafin, who is listed as unattached. That’s just one hour from now, but starting at this moment right in front of you is the long jump, featuring San Diego’s lady of the leap, Cherry Harper, who, you’ll remember, hung up her spikes two seasons back, and has them on again for this Olympic season. She’s challenged by Glendale Gauchos’ star, Mamie Van Dyck, and I’ll pass up the temptation of saying she’s an old master at the art of long jumping, but she won’t mind me telling you she was over six metres fifty — that’s twenty-one feet plus — back in seventy-six. Next on track we have what could be a sensational eight hundred...’
They found Serafin and Lee sitting apart from the main group of spectators, beyond the finish line. Two men Dryden had not seen before were on Serafin’s left.
‘Three hours in that goddamned flying goldfish bowl, and we miss the bloody race,’ Valenti complained.
‘It was only a heat,’ Serafin airily assured him. ‘Gentlemen, I’m sorry if your flight was uncomfortable. Mr. Dryden, I’d like you to meet two other members of the consortium who have come to watch Goldengirl’s debut: Michael Cobb and Oliver Sternberg. You know the Galsgear label? Michael owns it.’
Cobb stood to shake Dryden’s hand, a silver-haired, white-suited man with craggy, sensitive features redolent of bit players in prewar movies. Not a face you would associate with trendy clothes for the younger woman.
‘And Olly is in wrestling,’ Serafin went on. ‘You could almost say he is wrestling.’
Sternberg was younger. His skin was cherubically pink, and he had blue eyes. He was very fat. His features were confined to a last stand in the center of a threatening mass of bulbous flesh. It was impossible to say whether he looked friendly. He simply had two eyes, a nose and a mouth, with no room for anything so extravagant as an expression. His body was obviously too heavy to prize from the two seats it spanned, so he passed up the formality of shaking hands. Instead, he raised the flat of his hand like an Indian — an Indian in a white PVC raincoat, and with a red bow tie Dryden glimpsed when the chins shifted.
‘It’s not a question of comfort,’ said Valenti, determined that the problems of the helicopter flight should not be brushed aside. ‘It’s my ulcer. We sat up there waiting for a mountain to come out of the mist and crush us. That’s no help to a doozie, no help at all.’
Sternberg looked up. ‘Do you also have piles?’ he asked in a boyish voice. ‘If you do, stay on your feet. These seats are for Eskimos.’
Before Valenti did more damage to his ulcer, Dryden asked whether he had heard the announcement correctly that Goldengirl had finished second.
‘In 24.6,’ Serafin confirmed. ‘She’s through to the final, which is all we wanted. She has been told to save the real running for the finals. The 100-metre heats take place in twenty minutes. Klugman is with her in the warmup area below us. He isn’t permitted to coach her on the track.’
‘Twenty minutes?’ said Valenti, still on his feet. ‘Do they have a bar in this icedrome?’
‘I think I noticed a Coca-Cola stand downstairs,’ said Serafin. ‘Nothing alcoholic, if that’s what you mean. We’re among people who don’t hold with things detrimental to the physique. The sponsors make most of their profits from toothpaste and soap. If you’re desperate, Klugman is carrying a small flask of brandy for emergencies, and I daresay if you asked him—’
‘Big deal!’ said Valenti, lighting a cigar.
‘Does anyone have a program?’ Dryden asked, like Valenti, looking for an opportunity of using the twenty-minute interval, though not in the same way. If his plan to get time alone with Goldine was to succeed, he needed to know the stadium’s layout. ‘I bought a paper, but it doesn’t say a lot about the events.’
‘I know all the information of interest to us,’ answered Serafin, ‘but if you wish to go downstairs for any reason at all, please do, Mr. Dryden. I trust you won’t take it personally if Mr. Brannon goes with you. Until we have come to an agreement about your participation in our project, we have to be a little security conscious. Here in San Diego we can’t extend to you all the... er’ — he gave a sly smile — ‘freedoms you enjoy in the retreat. By the way, Miss Fryer couldn’t make the trip today on account of a headache.’
‘I don’t mind having Elmer with me,’ said Dryden, ignoring the innuendo.
There was more action downstairs than on the track. The covered warmup area, with scores of girls working out in bright-coloured tracksuits, had the purposeful confusion, speeded up, of an air terminal in high season. They had difficulty spotting Goldine. She was on the far side, bent low at her calisthenics and simultaneously listening to a lecture from Klugman. She was in a black warm-up suit, her hair tied in a gold scarf. This wasn’t the moment to approach her, so Dryden applied himself instead to making sure where everything was located: dressing rooms, press room, director’s headquarters, medical room, judges’ and stewards’ check-in. There was also a snack bar. He took Elmer inside for a hamburger and coffee.
When they heard the girls called for the hundred, they went upstairs, picking up a program on the way.
‘Coming up to Heat One of the one-hundred-metre dash,’ called the announcer in his corn-belt twang, ‘and do we have a class field for this race! Debbie Jackson, fastest qualifier in the two hundred, goes again and meets Marlene Da Costa, winner of the two hundred Heat Two, and Goldine Serafin, the Bakersfield blonde, who also made the two hundred Final. Going with them is cute little Delphine Donovan, of the San Diego Mission Belles, at four-eleven a minisprinter, but watch out for her — she’s no slouch. Then we have a clubmate of Marlene’s in the Long Beach Comets, and never far behind her, Judy Winstanley. Lane six will be unoccupied, as Margaret Wales has withdrawn, but oh boy, these girls are going to have you screaming for them, never mind the rain. Do I hear those Long Beach Comets, down from L.A. in force? Two of your girls go in this one, and remember, it’s just the first two in each heat who go through.’
‘Does this crap last the whole afternoon?’ asked Valenti. ‘Can’t we switch him off, or something?’
Serafin ignored him, totally occupied watching Goldengirl testing her blocks on the gleaming track. Klugman had rejoined them and was explaining the strategy. ‘She’s going for second again. We figure Jackson will lead them in, so Goldengirl’s job is to edge Da Costa.’
‘Wouldn’t it be simpler to go for a win?’ Dryden asked.
‘With three finals to come, and Olympic qualifying times to set?’ said Klugman, with a glare. ‘In these conditions? You have to be joking. She needs to conserve her strength. No sense burning it up in the heats.’